𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧┃ Anthony Lockwood┃3┃

Chapter Fourteen - An Incident

Penelope Fittes, director of the great Fittes Agency, was not a publicly minded person. Despite her celebrity, she mostly confined herself to her apartments in Fittes House, the headquarters of the company on the Strand. True, she occasionally emerged for important ceremonies, such as the annual service for fallen agents at the tombs behind Horse Guards Parade. And she was sometimes glimpsed, black hair pinned back, dark glasses on, driving through the capital in her silver Rolls-Royce, on her way to appointments at the Sunrise Corporation or Fairfax Iron. But that was about it. Invitations to meet her in private were not normally forthcoming. So the summons to Fittes House to hear Penelope speak on agency matters that evening was not one to be ignored, even if you weren't interested in her. And Lockwood and Co were interested, very deeply.

Even so, only Lockwood and Nola attended, since Holly had a prior engagement. George was busy at the library. "We'll compare notes tonight." He'd said as he departed. "I'll be back later, hopefully with the book. Meanwhile you go and see Penelope – or Marissa, or whoever she is. Look her in the eye and tell me what you see."

What they saw when they arrived at the great grey building on the Strand were streams of operatives from their fellow agencies arriving in the dusk of early evening. There they all were: the lilac jackets of Grimble, the sky-blue ones of Tamworth, and the rest. They congregated by the flower beds, where ranks of lilies had been planted in the shapes of rampant unicorns; they filed slowly through the etched-glass doors. Traditionally, herding so many agents together would have been like shovelling a dozen tomcats into a sack and expecting them to cuddle up and keep the peace. Rivalry between companies was deeply ingrained, a function of their independence; in the past, chance encounters in the street often led to arguments and even duels. That night, with that independence threatened, the mood was different: wary and subdued. Doors were held open for old enemies; muttered greetings exchanged. Under the watchful gaze of many silver-jacketed Fittes agents, Lockwood and Nola shuffled through reception and into the conference hall.

As the venue for her announcement, Miss Fittes had chosen this mighty room, the Hall of Pillars. It was one of the most famous meeting places in London, a grand and gilded space, where marble floors and decorated ceilings showcased the wealth and history of the agency. Nine slender silver-glass pillars stood like birch trees at the centre of the hall. Each contained an artefact of historic significance, a powerful psychic Source collected by ghost-hunting pioneers Marissa Fittes and Tom Rotwell during the infancy of the Problem. By day, electric lamps illuminated the relics for the wonderment of visitors; by night, the trapped spirits swam silently within the pillars. With the light failing outside, they were just beginning to stir.

Lockwood and Nola took glasses of juice from silent attendants and meandered to a location on the fringes of the crowd. They studied the room. On a wall at the far end, a banner had been raised. It had the words THE FITTES INITIATIVE written on it in assertive black. Below stood a lectern on a little raised platform; this was covered with a curtain emblazoned with a silver unicorn. It was almost identical to the one they'd found lying on Marissa's coffin, in the crypt just up the road.       

Soon, attendees had arrived from all the independent agencies (even Bunchurch, which in the absence of their leader was represented by two frightened-looking youths). The hall was almost full. The doors were closed, the lamps turned low. Within the glowing pillars, shadowy forms flared and darted like deep-sea fish. Servants entered, bringing canapés on silver trays.

Lockwood took a petite spring roll and munched it cheerfully, before plucking another one and handing it to Nola. "Here, eat something. Now, forget Tufnell's place, James." He murmured. "Look at this. This is a proper bit of theatre, right here."

She couldn't be quite as calm as Lockwood – the announcement that they were there for was unlikely to be a nice one – but she knew exactly what he meant. The room was perfect for its purpose, which was to overawe and subdue its guests. The crowd of agents was a vast and colourful array – their jackets resplendent, their rapiers glinting under the light of the chandeliers – and yet compared to the solid, unchanging majesty of the great gold hall, which effortlessly swallowed them all, they seemed somehow tawdry and fleeting, of little consequence. High above their heads, ceiling paintings showed legendary early agents, great martyrs of the Fittes Agency. The pillars were like the treasure houses of a king.